Madame Chrysantheme eBook

But there is neither sadness nor horror in these Japanese
sepulchers; it would seem as if among this frivolous
and childish people, death itself could not be taken
seriously. The monuments are either Buddhas,
in granite, seated on lotus, or upright funereal stones
with an inscription in gold; they are grouped together
in little enclosures in the midst of the woods, or
on natural terraces delightfully situated, and are
generally reached by long stairways of stone carpeted
with moss; from time to time, these pass under one
of the sacred gateways, of which the shape, always
the same, rude and simple, is a smaller reproduction
of those in the temples.

Up above us, the tombs of our mountain are of so hoary
an antiquity that they no longer alarm any one, even
by night. It is a region of forsaken cemeteries.
The dead hidden away there have long since become
one with the earth around them; and these thousands
of little gray stones, these multitudes of ancient
little Buddhas, eaten away by lichens, seem to be
now no more than a proof of a series of existences,
long anterior to our own, and lost forever and altogether
in the mysterious depths of ages.

XXII.

Chrysantheme’s meals are something indescribable.

She begins in the morning, when she wakes, by two
little green wild plums pickled in vinegar and rolled
in powdered sugar. A cup of tea completes this
almost traditional breakfast of Japan, the very same
Madame Prune is eating downstairs, the same served
up to travelers in the inns.

During the course of the day the feeding is continued
by two little dinners of the drollest composition.
They are brought up on a tray of red lacquer, in microscopic
cups with covers, from Madame Prune’s apartment,
where they are cooked: a hashed sparrow, a stuffed
prawn, seaweed with a sauce, a salt sweetmeat, a sugared
chili. Chrysantheme tastes a little of all, with
dainty pecks and the aid of her little chopsticks,
raising the tips of her fingers with affected grace.
At every dish she makes a face, leaves three parts
of it, and dries her finger-tips after it in apparent
disgust.

These menus vary according to the inspiration which
may have seized Madame Prune. But one thing never
varies, either in our household or in any other, neither
in the north nor in the south of the Empire, and that
is the dessert and the manner of eating it: after
all these little dishes, which are a mere make-believe,
is brought in a wooden bowl, bound with copper,—­an
enormous bowl, fit for Gargantua, and filled to the
very brim with rice, plainly cooked in water.
Chrysantheme fills another large bowl from it (sometimes
twice, sometimes three times), darkens its snowy whiteness
with a black sauce flavored with fish which is contained
in a delicately shaped blue cruet, mixes it all together,
carries the bowl to her lips, and crams down all the
rice, shoveling it with her two chopsticks into her
very throat. Next the little cups and covers
are picked up, as well as the tiniest crumb that may
have fallen upon the white mats, the irreproachable
purity of which nothing is allowed to tarnish.
And so ends the dinner.